Charlotte returned to Priddle House after church services but remained only long enough to feed Morgan a quick lunch before heading off with him to the train depot. She wanted to assure herself time for a full afternoon of visiting with Olivia. Mrs. Priddle hadn’t hesitated to point out the possibility that Charlotte’s surprise visit could very well go amiss. But Charlotte was undeterred. She thought the idea quite fun.
The older woman walked outdoors with them and issued one final warning. ‘‘You’ll be squandering your money on train fare if Olivia isn’t at home.’’
Charlotte continued toward the front sidewalk carrying Morgan in her arms. ‘‘I’ll find her. And if I don’t, I’ll go and visit with Mrs. DeVault.’’ Charlotte pumped Morgan’s arm up and down in a wave. ‘‘Say good-bye, Morgan.’’
Though he failed to say good-bye, he squealed and held his arms out toward Fiona when she joined Mrs. Priddle on the front porch. Fiona threw a kiss, and Morgan immediately complied. Charlotte had hoped Fiona could join them on the outing, but the girl had failed to perform all of her chores during the week, and Mrs. Priddle had swiftly denied the request.
Charlotte had urged Mrs. Priddle to change her decision, but the older woman would not relent. Fiona had made a choice and must suffer the consequences. Charlotte couldn’t argue with Mrs. Priddle, for she knew the woman was correct. Had her parents been firm with her when she was a child, perhaps she would have made better choices. Like Mrs. Priddle, Charlotte wanted what was best for Fiona. But right now, it was difficult to observe the girl’s dejected countenance.
With a sympathetic smile, Charlotte waved to Fiona, walked to the corner with Morgan in her arms, and boarded a cab. Morgan jabbered at the other woman sitting in the carriage. She smiled and talked to him until he attempted to yank the artificial bird from atop her hat. Although Charlotte profusely apologized, the woman moved to the other side of the carriage and glared at them the rest of the drive to the train station.
For an instant Charlotte considered telling the woman that her hat had gone out of style years earlier, and had Morgan removed the bird, it would have been an improvement. But she kept the thought to herself. The moment the carriage came to a halt, the woman stepped out of the conveyance and hurried off as though she couldn’t get away quickly enough.
‘‘I don’t believe she liked us very well,’’ Charlotte whispered to her son. ‘‘You must behave on the train.’’
He bobbed his head as though he understood. Charlotte approached the ticket counter, purchased a round-trip ticket, and made her way through the crowd. There was little time to spare before the train arrived.
She pushed open the door leading to the platform and quickly turned when she felt a hand on her elbow.
‘‘May I be of some assistance, Miss Spencer?’’ Charlotte could see confusion register in Matthew Clayborn’s eyes. ‘‘And who is this young fellow?’’ He beamed at Morgan. The child wriggled in her arms and then lunged toward Matthew.
Charlotte gripped the boy around the waist and pulled him back into her arms. She quietly chided her son for his behavior. ‘‘This is my son, Morgan.’’ She offered no further explanation. Mr. Clayborn was, in effect, a stranger, and she owed him nothing more. She stepped back and glanced at the railroad tracks. ‘‘My train is boarding. If you’ll excuse us.’’
He stepped forward and kept pace as she hurried toward the train. ‘‘I’m on my way to Pullman, also—to visit Fred.’’
She came to a halt and frowned before continuing onward. ‘‘Why did you choose this particular time and day for your visit, Mr. Clayborn? I would think you could visit with Fred when he’s in town for the convention.’’ Her comment appeared to disarm him, and he hesitated.
‘‘You’re quite shrewd, Miss Spencer. You may want to consider news reporting as a career.’’ He reached forward and grasped one of Morgan’s pudgy fingers. The boy bounced with delight. ‘‘But you have this young fellow to fill your days, don’t you?’’
‘‘Only until tomorrow.’’ The words slipped out before she could retract them. Charlotte could see the questions forming in Mr. Clayborn’s eyes. The man was a newspaper reporter. He would undoubtedly quiz her throughout the train ride to Pullman.
Hoping to avoid him, she boarded the train and searched for a seat. With all of the empty space, most of the passengers would likely be irritated if she squeezed in beside them with her wiggly child, so she opted for one of the seats away from the majority of the passengers and plopped Morgan beside her.
The boy immediately climbed to his feet and smacked his palms on the train window. ‘‘Ope!’’ His demand was followed by more window smacking.
‘‘I cannot open the window,’’ Charlotte explained, attempting to hold his hands. He struggled against her hold and wiggled out of her grasp. Pressing his foot against her silk gown, he slipped and tumbled forward. With lightning speed, Matthew reached forward and swooped the child into his arms.
He balanced Morgan in one arm and tipped his head toward the seat opposite Charlotte. ‘‘Mind if I join you?’’
What could she say? She wanted to refuse, but such behavior would be absolutely rude given the circumstances. He had, after all, saved her child from injury, and Morgan was now clinging to the man. She opened her arms to her son, but he twisted and dug his head into Matthew’s neck.
‘‘He’s fine. I’m quite fond of children.’’
She arched her brows. ‘‘And how many children do you have, Mr. Clayborn?’’
‘‘Matthew. Please call me Matthew.’’ He grinned at Morgan. ‘‘I don’t have any children of my own, but I do have nieces and nephews. My sister thinks I’m quite competent with her children. She tells me I’d make an excellent father. And what of you? Is Morgan your only child?’’
His question startled her. ‘‘Yes.’’ She hoped her curt response would put an end to his questions.
He shifted Morgan onto his knee so the boy could watch out the window while the train pulled out of the station. ‘‘You mentioned you would be caring for Morgan only until tomorrow?’’
She frowned, but he wouldn’t be deterred.
‘‘Earlier, when I mentioned news reporting as a possible avocation, but then . . .’’
Charlotte shifted in her seat, recalling their previous conversation. ‘‘I begin work tomorrow, so my son will be spending his days in someone else’s care.’’ She carefully phrased her answer to avoid any reference to Priddle House or where she lived.
He focused his piercing blue eyes upon her. ‘‘And who has employed you, Miss Spencer? Everyone I speak to tells me there are no jobs to be had in all of Chicago.’’
She sighed. The man was relentless. ‘‘I have returned to my previous position with Marshall Field and Company.’’ Matthew’s eyes shone with surprise. Or was that contempt? ‘‘I’m certain Ellen Ashton has provided you with details of my past. We need not continue this cat-and-mouse game.’’
He bounced his knee, and Morgan giggled with delight. ‘‘I won’t deny the fact that I attempted to wheedle information from her, but she remained as tight-lipped as a sealed envelope. I hate to admit my efforts were unsuccessful. I wouldn’t want my newspaper editor to know I’d been unable to pry information out of an old acquaintance.’’
‘‘Your secret is safe with me. I promise I won’t talk to your editor.’’ Charlotte exhaled and relaxed a degree. It was refreshing to know she could trust Mr. Ashton and his daughter to maintain her confidence.
‘‘Will you be working as a salesclerk in Mr. Field’s establishment?’’
She decided to repay Matthew’s persistence and surprised him with a candid response. After a feeble attempt to hide his distaste for the idea of a personal shopper, he concurred there would be no shortage of customers. ‘‘Money abounds in the tight circle of capitalists. And their wives and daughters are more than willing to spend some of it when they’re in Chicago. You may see a decrease in sales once the wealthy flee to their summer resorts or sail to Europe in the next few weeks, but Mr. Field knows to expect waning sales in the summer. Such declines shouldn’t reflect upon you.’’ He tousled Morgan’s shock of fine hair. ‘‘What about this young fellow? Who will be seeing to his care?’’
‘‘A dear friend.’’
‘‘A man?’’
‘‘No, of course not. I told you I am not married.’’
‘‘You are a widow, perchance?’’
‘‘You are quite forward with your questions, but I’m certain Fred will tell you of my past, should you inquire. And since there is little doubt you
will
inquire, I suppose there’s no need to hold back any longer.’’
While Morgan entertained himself bouncing on Matthew’s knee, Charlotte revealed the sad details of the past two years. She ended the tale in a final rush of words. ‘‘I’m not proud of my behavior, but I love my son, and I have received God’s forgiveness for my sins.’’ She folded her hands in her lap and waited for his condemnation.
‘‘Why would you want to work for Marshall Field?’’
She reeled at the question. ‘‘Why do I want to work for Marshall Field?
That’s
what you want to know after all that I’ve told you?’’
‘‘None of us can change our past. We can only strive to do better in the future. And it’s your future that interests me.’’ He raked one hand through his sandy brown hair while clutching Morgan with the other. ‘‘That’s why I asked about your choice of Marshall Field as an employer. He is no different from George Pullman or Philip Armour. All these capitalists are cut from the same cloth. Can you not see the similarities? They oppress the rest of the country while they live in the very lap of luxury. It is unconscionable.’’
The train clanged their arrival in Pullman. ‘‘Mr. Field has treated me with utmost respect. He pays me a generous wage— enough for me to help support Priddle House, and I am told he is quite charitable.’’
‘‘You live at Priddle House? The daughter of the Earl of Lan-shire?’’ His brows furrowed. ‘‘Quite a story you’re weaving. Perhaps you should consider fiction rather than news reporting.’’
She shrugged and scooted to the edge of her seat. ‘‘What I’ve told you is true. Whether you choose to believe me makes little difference.’’ Charlotte attempted to lift Morgan from his arms, but the child immediately turned around and clung to Matthew’s jacket.
‘‘He’s fine. I’ll carry him.’’
She would have preferred to rip her son from his arms but chided herself for her childish thoughts. ‘‘As you wish.’’
They left the train station, looking, to her dismay, like a young family arriving for a visit. Morgan bounced in Matthew’s arms and pointed at the ground. ‘‘Dow!’’ Matthew tightened his grip.
‘‘He wants to walk,’’ Charlotte said.
‘‘I know, but I didn’t think you wanted . . .’’ He shrugged and leaned down. Once Morgan had gained his balance, Matthew grasped one hand and Charlotte took the other. The boy giggled and lifted his feet off the ground while the two adults supported his weight. ‘‘Typical little boy,’’ Matthew said. ‘‘Do you want to accompany me to the DeVaults’ and say hello before locating Olivia?’’
She nodded. ‘‘Yes. I’d enjoy a visit with Mrs. DeVault, and she or Fred should know where I can find Olivia.’’
They continued down the sidewalk, the scent of roses wafting on the summer breeze. Not much appeared to have changed. Though she had read reports of the strike activities, the town remained well maintained, with children and adults in the park playing games and enjoying a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Morgan attempted to direct them toward a group of youngsters gathered together for a game of ball, but between the two of them, they managed to redirect him.
‘‘I do think this town quite charming, and please don’t counter by listing all of Mr. Pullman’s faults. You will surely concede he constructed a lovely town. In many respects it reminds me of England.’’
Matthew grunted and shrugged, apparently unwilling to give a favorable nod to any of the accomplishments created by a capitalist. They turned the corner and walked down Morse Avenue. The front door of the DeVault residence stood open, and sounds of laughter drifted through the screen.
‘‘My reporter instincts tell me that Olivia is inside.’’
Charlotte chuckled. ‘‘I think perhaps it’s your excellent hearing rather than your ability to sniff out a story.’’
Matthew lifted Morgan into his arms and rapped on the door. Charlotte could see Fred striding down the hallway toward the front door. As he drew near, she watched his brow furrow, and then a look of surprise erased his frown. ‘‘Charlotte? I don’t believe my eyes.’’ He pushed open the door. ‘‘It
is
you!’’ He glanced at Matthew and Morgan and then back at her, his confusion obvious.
‘‘Who is it, Fred? If we have guests, invite them in.’’ Mrs. DeVault stood at the end of the hallway.
Fred waved them inside before turning to his mother. ‘‘Come see who’s here. And tell Olivia to come, too.’’
‘‘So that
was
Olivia’s voice we heard.’’ Charlotte couldn’t believe her good fortune.
‘‘Olivia and Chef René are both here.’’ Fred had barely uttered the words before Charlotte spotted Olivia hurrying toward her.
Olivia stopped midway down the hall. ‘‘Charlotte! When did you . . . how did you . . .’’ she stammered. After a brief moment, she regained her composure and hurried forward to enfold Charlotte in a warm embrace. She leaned back and stared into Charlotte’s eyes. ‘‘It is so good to see you. I can barely believe my eyes.’’ Morgan chortled and grabbed a handful of Olivia’s curls in his chubby fist. ‘‘And
this
must be Morgan,’’ she said.
‘‘Morgan!’’ Charlotte pried his fingers from Olivia’s hair. ‘‘Do behave, young man. I apologize, Olivia. I fear Morgan has developed quite a penchant for hair pulling.’’
‘‘No harm done,’’ Olivia said while tucking the curl behind one ear. ‘‘I truly cannot wait to hear all that has happened with you and Morgan.’’ She clasped a palm to her chest. ‘‘This is such a surprise. I believe my heartbeat has increased tenfold.’’
Mrs. DeVault extended her arms to Morgan, and the boy dove toward her. The older woman laughed with delight. ‘‘You know who has a nice dish of pudding, don’t you?’’ Morgan bobbed his head as though he’d understood every word. ‘‘Come along, all of you. We don’t need to stand out here in the hall. You’re just in time. René is dishing up our dessert.’’